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Wednesday, 28 June 2017

This week's photo is an abandoned subway station - City Hall Station, in New York. It was
built as a stop in the New York City Subway System in 1904, but closed
in 1949 because the station wasn't very busy and could no longer
accommodate larger subway cars.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Paranoid

When I reached the platform it was empty; the only sound
that of my rushed footsteps echoing off the underground walls.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked round, frantic for
company. The platform veered off to the left and I hurried along in the hope of
finding another soul – but there was no one.

I tried to take steady breaths and calm myself while my ears
scanned for any sound that might signify the imminent arrival of a train. The
display boards were switched off giving me no indication of when that might
be.

My over stretched ears were telling my brain something it
didn’t want to hear: that the footsteps I’d imagined behind me since leaving
the office and making my way to the station, were not actually imaginary; that
they were steadily coming closer, one by one down the long flight of steps to
the platform.

My eyes searched for a place to disappear into: an inset in
the wall, a corner behind the power box at the end of the platform – even a
bench to crouch behind, but there was nothing. I stepped back, hugging the wall
and stepping quietly along to the corner. I could only hope they didn’t come
round the curve in the platform.

I felt open, exposed, and vulnerable; the epitome of a woman
alone at night.

My mind kept running scenarios of being attacked. I
imagined running to the edge of the platform and flinging myself off - rather
electrocuted on the lines than taken by force.

The footsteps had arrived on the platform. They were light,
tentative, clearly looking for me. I wanted to shut my eyes, but my brain
wouldn’t let me. I had to know, had to be sure. I looked out at the tiny
section of platform I could see and waited.

But nothing; the footsteps had faded.

My ears kept searching for any sound or scrape, but only the
echo of the station came back: the air moving through the tunnels, the background
rustle of anything from paper, to mice, to the traffic above – no indication of
another person on the platform.

I stayed where I was, frozen to the spot for as long as it
took me to realise I was holding my breath. I let it out carefully not wanting
to attract any attention, certain my potential assailant was still there biding
their time.

My eyes traced the hands on my watch as the seconds
stretched out to minutes, as I silently pleaded for two headlights to appear
in the tunnel.

I jumped at the sound of sonic shots running through the
rails as a train approached. The air stirred but I dared not move. I wanted to remain hidden until the last possible moment.

The train pulled in, bright and light, but mostly unoccupied at this late hour.
When the doors slid open I made a dash for it, leaping in, my eyes darting left
expecting to see someone coming at me. But no one did, because there was no one
there. The platform was empty.

A frown crossed my face as the doors slid shut and I
searched the station from end to end as the train moved off, but the truth was
I’d been alone the entire time.

I leaned back against the wall of the train and sighed my
relief, until a gentle cough reached me. I glanced up to find eyes staring at
me from the other end of the carriage belonging to a lone man.

Thursday, 22 June 2017

It's an international flash-fiction journal created by
writers and edited by a team of volunteer editors on behalf, and in aid of National Flash Fiction Day, which took place on the 24th of June.

Every 10 minutes a new piece of Flash is put on the Flash Flood Journal for the full 24 hours of Flash Fiction day.

This ended up being a last minute entry, being that the first two I submitted, and had worked on for a few days were rejected. You are allowed three attempts, so I thought, what the hell, in for a penny in for a pound. I sent it in just half an hour before the deadline! Goes to show that sometimes it isn't about how long you have worked on a piece but whether it grasps the reader.

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Last week's photo prompt brought four entries with such unique concepts, its why I love doing these challenges. I have my take on a picture, but there are so many others. Plus I'm happy people are still showing up to write.

This week's photo prompt is on what I have always believed to be Midsummer's Day - the 21st of June. Although apparently it can differ depending on your beliefs, for some it is on the 24th of June (in Germany and other places). But the Internet - and my beloved timeanddate.com site which I use for timezones and daylight savings - tells me June Solstice in the Netherlands this year is indeed on Wednesday, 21 June 2017, 06:24 CET (Central European Time). So I picked this photo, which to me reflected long summer evenings.

Tracking down this picture, as is usually the case, was quite hard, but fortunately the original place I had pinned it from held the answer as it was credited correctly. It was taken by Studio Impressions, Marcus Bell & team in Brisbane Australia - for a wedding in Bali (Angie & Ben's)

My entry this week went darker than planned, but hey, that's how I roll. Maybe others will be able to show the lighter side.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Feast

Ramkin sat
back and rubbed his swollen tummy. It had been a fine feast and no mistake.
They’d sent them off well, and on the most perfect night of the year, Midsummer
Night. Mind you, half the attendees would only come out on that night, it being
a special night for those of a shadier nature.

It had
taken time and work to bring it all together, but fae gatherings were never
taken lightly, there had to be exact planning and execution. When Hommel
proposed to Mayfoot it had caused ructions: the fae weren’t meant to marry out
of their own blood for risk of tampering by other elements, elements whose
ultimate aim was to bring down the race. But the pair weren’t gonna budge, they
believed they were destined and no one could argue with that. Ramkin dared not
think about their offspring, that was not his business, or others either,
although there’d be plenty of talk.

A cheer
went up and more glasses were raised, the clinking resounding off the wall of
forest surrounding their twilight party. The glitter of the day had passed into
a twinkling evening, scented by the sun baked foliage and delicate table
displays of flowers and candles. And despite his full belly, Ramkin knew the
feasting had only just begun. In particular, the darker meat was yet to be brought
forward and roasted. He could see his brothers at work now, getting the pyre
and spit ready.

But his
people were not the ones to bring that meat, oh no that belonged to their
cousins who lived on the other side of life: in the shadows and dark corners,
blending in with the night. They were responsible for catching this prey, it
was their speciality, although everyone enjoyed the ritual of preparation, and
it would take a good few hours yet before it was cooked.

He heard
the moans already as they brought it into the clearing, and then the screams as
it realised what would be taking place; its feverish eyes on the fire that was
now burning under the spit, ready to take on its flesh. The louder the screams
the higher the laughter rose, especially while watching their tiny cousins run
up its body and begin the cutting, forcing it to its knees.

It was one
of the few moments that the fae felt superior. Living among the giants was hard
at times, but when they managed to catch one for a feast such as this, it made
it all worthwhile.

Wednesday, 14 June 2017

Three entries last week. I'm wondering if we are entering a dip. Summer is coming and people are getting busy. It won't be long before my children will be on school holiday and writing time will get tight.

This week's photo prompt is actually an advert on Etsy. Antique keys seem to be popular. I have always been fascinated by keys and doors - and the metaphorical meaning of both.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Hidden

Hannah
rolled the key between her thumb and forefinger, watching it glint in the
evening light coming in through the window. She loved its ornate
design; they didn’t make keys like that anymore, but then they didn’t make
houses like this anymore with secret backrooms and passageways leading to dark
dank corners underground.

Her parents finding this place had been a
blessing, and her finding the secret door had been a revelation – although the
key had been the key.

She
chuckled to herself at the pun, but it was true: had she not spotted it under
the stairs, hanging in a dusty corner when she'd been exploring, she would never have known there was a secret door to find - and then she wouldn’t have found
anything to hide behind it.

She smiled to herself. How long could keep it hidden was the big question – or
should she say ‘him’, keep ‘him’ hidden. She let out another chuckle and popped
the key into her pocket as sat back grinning.

They were
looking for him; they had been for two days now. She couldn’t help the thrill
it gave her seeing everyone so distraught, especially her mother. All the angst
and guilt that came out and all the additional hugs and comfort they gave her.
She struggled with liking it and resenting it, but that was their fault too.
If he hadn’t been the one given all the attention all the time none of this would have
happened.

Her face changed to an angry scowl, although it froze at the thought of
what would happen when they did finally find him. She could see her mother
rejecting her then, maybe even ejecting her too – putting her in some kind of home.

It’s why
she had to draw this out as long as possible, milk as much from it now as she could,
because once they found his body it would all be over.

She pulled
the key out again and turned it over in her hand. Its beauty turned sinister
as she looked at it. Maybe its discovery hadn’t been as good as she had first
thought then.

Wednesday, 7 June 2017

Despite a lot of reactions in the forms of comments and retweets, last week's photo prompt only elicited two submissions - although I did enjoy both of them very much. I am grateful for those. I dread the day no one comes to write!

This week's photo prompt I have held onto for a while, as I try and change things up every week, and not repeat similar themes. This was taken in a former, now abandoned, TB sanatorium in Grabowsee, Oranienburg, Germany, which is a little north of Berlin. It was taken by someone over on Flicker called Michael.

I felt it offered a wide range of interpretation. Mine, as often is the case, is dark. I'm interested in what it might inspire in others.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Attainable

She sees
the window but can’t look through it. She yearns to touch it, but can’t reach
it; an illusion she can’t shatter.

She
imagines how it would feel: what breeze would come through it, how it would
light up the room, give her hope. It held a promise the current room she was in
had lost.

She knew it
was unattainable now; she would never experience it again: to look through a
window, feel the air on her face, smell the sweet smells of the outside. All
she could smell in this room was herself: the body odour, the wounds, the
abuse.

He would be
back soon. He had a rigid schedule. She wasn’t the only one he held. But it
wouldn’t be for much longer; she knew that. He didn’t. He still expected to get
more out of her: more screams, more begging, more moans, more pain, more blood.

The mirror
had been a punishment, reflecting her state. But it had been jolted during one
of her days of resistance: a kick here, a push there, a shove causing it to crack
and split. It brought hope.

Footsteps
outside. His hand on the door. She braced herself, clutching the fragment that
would end this. There would be blood, and pain, maybe screams. She hoped for
begging – but none of it from her this time.